In My Hands
by dimefor12
Summary: Dean and Sam hear about a case in North Carolina. I still suck at summaries . Implied Wincest.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: I have this planned out as a 6 part story. I know this first one is short, but it'll pick up on length (and become more interesting g) in later parts. Please, REVIEW! I love feedback. Hope you guys enjoy!**

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In My Hands, part 1

Sam hates when there's nothing to hunt. Maybe if it was different, if he had somewhere to go home to during these quiet times, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But now, all he has is Dean (_loud, messy, angry_), the Impala, and a string of cheap hotels bought on a scammed credit card. It's too much like growing up again, being a scared and frustrated kid, and _wanting _so many things that are just beyond his reach. So, yeah, now he'd rather hunt until he's achy and tired and past caring if the bed's scratchy and hard. All of that is better than watching Dean pace and fidget and snap. It's better than wondering what's out there that they just haven't heard about.

He's sitting across from his brother in some tiny little diner in Kentucky, scanning the daily paper for any signs of activity. It's useless, he thinks, but the repetition is comforting, and it's better than staring. At Dean. Or the three other people slouched at the counter. Better, but Dean's scraping the sugar holder back and forth, and even as Sam's determined not to look up, he can't block out the monotonous grating. Still, after fifteen minutes, Sam's starting to wish Dean'd just _choke _on the damn thing.

He's saved by the arrival of their food; his salisbury steak is thrown down with so much force that he thinks the overcooked meat might splatter across the table. Half of Dean's fries do, however, end up in his lap; he can see Dean open his mouth, ready to say something, but their waitress (_Shana_) has already stomped away. "Well," he says, staring at the spiky hair at the top of Dean's bent head and smirking as his brother plops limp fries back onto his plate. "Guess she's still upset."

"Yeah, well." But Dean's not eating, just staring at the food, fists lightly curled and drumming the table. Sam can see the faint white lines of scars criss-crossing his brother's knuckles. "I take it the paper didn't having anything." It's not a question, but seems pulled out of Dean, anyway. Sam shakes his head, starts cutting into the lump of meat in front of him; he doesn't know if he wants to eat it, can imagine everything pretty, little Shana did to it when Dean turned down her offer. He cuts open the patty, anyway; sees gray and goes for the mashed potatoes. Dean's mumbling _goddamnit, _and it's a sentiment Sam can agree with.

"I don't know," he says. Dean's shifting in his booth, and Sam can feel his booted feet on his, knocking against his ankle. At least it's not the freakin' sugar again, but when Dean grinds his heel into Sam's right foot, Sam's had it. "Would you stop? Jesus," and he pulls his foot away, kicks out, hoping to get shin. Dean grunts, narrows his eyes; _score, _Sam thinks, not really expecting Dean's boot sliding behind his knee and jerking his leg into the the bottom of the table. Hard. Not expecting it, but not surprised. "Fuck," and Dean cocks an eyebrow. "You know, this is the most demented game of footsie I've _ever _played."

"Whatever," but Dean's smirking as he picks apart his burger. "I'm gonna play some pool down at the bar tonight. You wanna come?" Sam watches as Dean prods at a pickle, the soft brown spots caving to mush. His brother frowns, lips settling into a thin line that he privately thinks looks ridiculous.

"Nah," pushing his own plate away, and refilling his cup from the carafe. Coffee's the safer bet. "Nah, I want to try to find a lead on something."

"Okay," and that's the end of it. Dean pours himself a coffee, and Sam stares out the window.

888

It's anticlimatic when Sam notices it. He's searching local discussion groups when he sees a post by a woman named Melissa Zach. It's the best he's seen so far, and it only takes a minute to scan her user page, see the website she created and click on it. It's for her nephew; kidnapped, the police believed, but there was never any signs of forced entry or fingerprints that didn't belong to the mother or the oldest son. So. Disappeared from his bedroom, about three months ago. He writes down the address _567 Firestation 501_, in Afton, North Carolina. Even if it's not supernatural at least it'll get them out of Kentucky.

Sam wishes that is wasn' t a kid, though; thinks that he could skip over this one, try to find something else. Thinks of all the jobs he and his brother of have done, and how the worst ones always end with having to tell a _motherfathersisterbrother_ that the child is dead. There's something unfair in it; he just doesn't know if it's the death, the grief, or the fact that they get to drive away and not see any of it, never have to deal with the aftermath.

And the victim's only six, birthday come and gone during his absence. Six, and been gone for _months._ Those aren't good odds. But. It's a little boy, and maybe if they go in expecting the worst it won't be that bad. He knows Dean'll be all for it if Sam tells him, 'cause after Sam, children are his brother's weak spot. Sam's seen him run himself ragged trying to turn a case around, to bring the parents what they've lost. Even just the remains, if that's all that's left, and it's hard. Which is why he has to decide before Dean's back, because between his brother's own shit and the stuff their dad is pulling Sam doesn't know if Dean can handle it. Doesn't know if he wants to see his brother fall apart that way.

He keeps the paper, tucks it into their dad's journal to show Dean tomorrow. It's something, at least. And what they need, for now. But his eyes are dragged back to the screen, to the picture of the boy, _Jacob_, who's all sunny smiles and blonde hair. He stares until the harsh light pricks at the headache pounding through his temples. _All right_, he thinks, _North Carolina it is, _and shuts down the laptop, breathing easier in the darkness.

888

There's a heavy weight on his back, pressing him down into the mattress, when he wakes up. He smells nicotine and alcohol and the traces of perfume; feels hot breath against his skin where Dean's head is resting between his shoulder blades, feels heat where Dean's arm is thrown over him, where his hand rests against Sam's hip. He wonders vaguely when his brother got in, glances at the clock and sees _4: 07 _flash back at him.

He tries to shove an elbow back, prod Dean to move, but his brother doesn't wake up, doesn't shift, just curls the leg that isn't thrown over Sam's and pushes the knee into Sam's thigh. _Fine, _he can still sleep for a few hours, even with his brother coiled around him like a damn octopus. Even with his face feeling stuffed full of cotton, and whether that's from being mashed half in the flat pillow or from the energetic air-conditioner clunking away beneath the window, he doesn't know. He huffs, once, and gets a mouth full of fabric. _Fine. _The minute changes to eight before he closes his eyes; the green light plays across the back of Sam lids until it fades to black and he sleeps.

The second time he wakes up, it's to the door slamming shut and heavy footsteps on the thin carpet. "What?" He turns his head, glares at the clock that reads ten o'clock, before rolling onto his back, and wincing at the pain spreading like fire in his shoulders and the dull ache in his chest. _Ow. _Throwing an arm over his face, he says, "For future reference, Dean, I am not your freakin' body pillow."

"You're a whiny, little bitch in the morning, dude." Sam hears rustling, feels Dean's shadow fall over him. "Here. Coffee." He grunts, but sits up and takes the paper cup from his brother. The heat seeps into his hands, and the strong smell of artificial vanilla--sharp and sweet--wafts up. He smiles, knows Dean hates ordering _sissy shit, _has heard it too many time to forget. "You find anything?"

"Mm," he says, watches Dean settle in the chair by the table, tenses to keep from moving when the bed dips as Dean stretches his legs and rests them on top of the blankets. "Yeah, maybe. A case in North Carolina; little boy went missing a few months ago with no traces of anyone but the family being there."

Dean shifts and the chair groans in protest. "Kinda weak, Sammy. Anything saying it's unnatural? Any patterns in the area?"

"Not really, no." He sips at the coffee, feels it burn it's way down his throat. "But there's nothing saying it's _normal_, either." Dean's staring at the cup in Sam's hand, or at his chest, eyes wide and distant. "I mean, we don't have anything else to do, so why not check it out?" He smears the drops of liquid along the mouth of the cup, follows it as it soaks into the paper. "Worst case scenario? We end up doing nothing but in another state." He flicks his eyes back to Dean as his brother's running a hand through his hair. "Not a lot of choices."

"Alright," Dean sighs, stands up and heads toward the bathroom. "From here to North Carolina it's about nine or ten hours, I guess. We'll get somethin' to eat on the way."

After Dean shuts the bathroom door, Sam thumps his head against the wall. Hot chills are running along his skin, like he hasn't gotten enough sleep; but that's nothing new, so he drinks the coffee and ignores the ache building behind his eyes; he listens, instead, to the hum of pipes as the shower's turned on.


	2. Chapter 2

In My Hands, part 2

Sam wonders why it's small, rural places that hold the most work. He can count on one hand the number of times they've had a hunt in a populated city, and half of those cases were depressingly simple. He thinks, maybe, that cities never slow down; the people living there are always rushing, and don't have the time to notice unusual activity, unless it's the rip-your-guts out kind. The backwater places have time in spades; they have people who notice and see and _know _something's not right.

Afton is like that. It's a town that's barely a mile wide, and it's one boast is its convenience mart. Mostly, it consists of a handful of houses and a volunteer firesation stretched along the highway. So, yeah, this place is small, wouldn't ping anyone's radar, but Sam's had experience with that; he's not unused to scouting out unknown places, but this is different. Afton is dry, dusty. Isolated. Stray dogs, their ribs painfully visible, jog alongside the road, turning dead eyes to the cars that pass them. The people here have a weather-beaten look, even the young ones, and Sam can't stop thinking of funerals and death and the bitter taste of grief. He tries to imagine what happened here, but he can only think, i_t's dying, _and he glances toward his brother, sees the tight hands curled around the steering wheel, the locked jaw, the uneasy look, and knows Dean feels it, too.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean says, turning left onto the dirt road that leads to Lynn Zach's house. Sam can see Dean wince every time they hit a rut, but Dean doesn't complain. "Maybe you're on to something, here." Sam glances out the window, view confined to wilted trees and brown grass. He hears Dean mutter, "Whole town probably needs an exorcism."

"Hey," Sam can see a huddled shape on the steps of the porch; head bent, resting on knees. Sam knows this is the oldest boy, and he can't be much older than twelve, starting to morph into gangly arms and legs, outsized and clumsy. Sam fingers the pocket of his slacks, feels the weight of the badge and i.d. of _Mike Simmons_, detective, before he climbs out of the Impala, shuts the door and hears the echo from the other side. "Excuse me, is this the Zach residence?"

The boy finally looks up, and the pinched face could be an older version of the boy floating around on the Internet (_please, help us_). "Who are you?" His voice is high and cautious, hands braced on either side of him, tense, ready to push him up, get him away.

"I'm Detective Simmons," Sam slows when he's a few feet from the boy, hears Dean do the same. Nodding his head toward his brother, he says, "This is my partner, Detective Plant," he wants to grimace at Dean's idea of a joke, but keeps his face smooth, open. "We're with the Raleigh branch of Missing Persons; we wanted to speak with your mother about Jacob's disappearance."

The boy's eyes dart between the two of them, unsure. But he says, "Uh," then, a beat later, "I'm Peter. Just wait here. I'll see--" and turns, worn sneakers scuffing the steps, before heading into the house. The screen door the kid bangs through is old, a rusted memory of metal and wire that hangs half-open, even when the main door swings closed.

Their home isn't any different from the other ones in the area. Closed off from the road by a stand of trees, the cleared space is full of weeds and thirsty grass. Over to the side Sam sees someone's effort at landscaping: three bordered triangles sloping downhill. He's sure at one time they were filled with flowers; now, all that's left is furred vines spilling over, tangling gently. He wonders if the neglect started with her son's disappearance, or before; if it just wasn't worth fighting. He knows it doesn't matter, and returns from his wandering to the cracked path leading to the front of the house. Waits.

There's noise coming from inside; Sam can hear thuds, and the sound of voices inching closer, one high and young, the other husky and feminine. He almost feels his brother's muscles bunch and lock as if they were his own. It's always amused him how uncomfortable Dean is around the ones they have to interview, considering how quick he is to chat a woman up if she shows any kind of interest. It's the lies, he guesses, and the subterfuge when someone's hurting or mourning. It gets to his brother in ways Sam doesn't understand, _can't_ understand. Especially when, each time a case presents itself, there's a little part of him who's pleased, happy, someone else gets to suffer, gets to lose. It's not them, each time there's a death reported all Sam can think is _it's not us. Not Dean. Not Dad. _It makes Sam feel protected for another hour, another minute. Long enough to pack and head where ever they need to; long enough that he doesn't panic when Dean's in danger, only reminds himself _blood's already spilled. _And it works for that moment, that hunt, because he can delude himself that the _spiritdemonmonster _has already been satiated, isn't greedy for more.

So, yeah, Sam's made himself comfortable with lies. Figures if he lies to himself, he sure as hell has no trouble lying to people who don't really matter. But for all Dean's bluster, fake smiles and smarm, he hates it. Always prefers to tell the truth, and Sam knows it by rote, now. All the years of living in his big brother's pocket, in his shadow, have taught it to him. _We're all gonna die _and _it's a dangerous gig, Sammy _and whispered to the waitresses and bartenders in various states _I'm gonna be gone by tomorrow. _And to him? That first night after going back to California, seeing Becky again, _I think we're gonna regret this someday, Sam, but. _

The fact, he thinks now, that the hands he'd always had steadying him, grasping the back of his neck, his elbow and shoulder, in comfort--those hands had trailed fire across his skin, and he had thought, then and there with blood across his mouth and bruises throbbing under his skin from the thing that took his brother's shape, _I won't_. Had meant it, though he never said it out loud, had wanted to give Dean the option of backing out if what they did ever got to be too much, or too hard, or too dirty. Had wanted the option of swallowing the hurt, smiling, and saying _me, too, _when Dean decided he had enough guilt and remorse and just wanted to be Sam's big brother again.

"Dude," Dean whispers, and Sam feels his brother's elbow digging into his arm. He glances up, sees Peter reappear. Wonders briefly how dazed and far away he looked. Hears Dean's voice, "Is your mom available?" Sam suppresses a snort, conjuring all the innuendo that phrase used to hold. Dean still glares, but turns back to the kid. "Or should we come back another time?"

"No." The boy looks distracted, wary. Sam wonders if it's just them, dredging up the fear of three months ago, when his brother was newly gone, or if it's something else. "She just has to--get ready. We've been cleaning all day."

Sam tries to smile reassuringly, nods. Dean just asks, "Is it alright if we wait on your porch then?" At Peter's own nod, they climb the steps, settling down in plastic lawn chairs cushioned with too-thin padding that, from the looks of the faded floral print, are homemade.

It's quiet after that. The boy stands by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he doesn't know if he should go inside or keep an eye on the two strangers. Dean's not offering any conversation, just staring out over the railing, legs stretched and crossed at the ankle, like this isn't awkward at all. Maybe for him it isn't; silence has always sat better on Dean, letting him watch and wait before moving. Sam's been the one to force sound, because he feels the alternative like a living thing, breathing and swirling, around him. Hates it, because it leaves things unsaid, and in his family that's similar to leaving a wound to fester. He knows. He's done it--let things go on until his only recourse was leaving his family miles away in the dust.

This time, though, is different. He can't think of anything to say, to calm Peter's skittishness. He understands it; the fear of reliving the loss and seeing parents slip away. He knows because he's seen it a dozen times. So this time he'll swallow the meaningless words that are lodged in his throat, choking him, and give everyone that level of space. It's fine.

And apparently it's tedious. He runs his fingers along the crooked seam of the cushion, feels the rough pull of thread zigzagging under his hand. He wants to mirror Dean's position, wants to shift down and relax his shoulders. But the tension coiled there feels like a knot, and he stays still, fights the urge to fidget, to move. It's pointless, now, when there's nothing but waiting, and when he knows it's just uneasiness (_it's dying_) winding pain through the back of his eyes, down his cheekbones. He can wait.

888

"I'm sorry," and it's in that same husky tone Sam caught outside. "I just wasn't expecting, uh, visitors. Today." Ms. Zach (_please, just call me Lynn_) has the vaguely haunted look that everyone in Afton seems to share, but it doesn't have the same familiarity, the lines etched in her face aren't as deep, the bruises under her eyes are fresh, and Sam thinks _Jacob._

"That's all right, ma'am," he smiles as she sets coffee mugs in front of them. He can feel Dean's relief, can hear his _thank Christ it's not china. _"Have you lived here long?"

She settles in the chair across from them, cradling her own cup, and Sam sees the ragged nails, bitten down to the quick. "Since before Peter was born. So, about thirteen years, I guess."

"And you don't have family nearby?" He can feel Dean's eyes on him, can hear the sound of his brother taking a sip of coffee. But he's more interested in Lynn, in steady green eyes that never veer from his.

"I'm originally from Ohio. Most of my family is there, except for a few in South Carolina and Kentucky, and my brother. He lives in Asheville, but we don't talk."

Sam nods his head, sees the stillness in her posture. "Okay. Now. Can you tell us about Jacob's disappearance?" He doesn't miss the tremor that runs through her, as if electric currents were running under her skin. He thinks, briefly, _I'm sorry. _

She doesn't tell them anything new. Sam supposes that what her sister had included on the website was exactly what they knew. She had put the boy to bed (_at nine, always at nine_), and the next morning Jacob hadn't come down for breakfast. She had sent Peter upstairs to wake him, and when her oldest found the room empty, they had searched the house, the yard, then spiralled out, following the road. Nothing. The police had been next, and missing persons forms, fliers and local news programs.

"Did Jacob ever mention any monsters? Something he was scared of?" Dean's voice is soft, but Sam hears something underneath. But he hasn't been able to read Dean well lately, and can't decipher if the edge means anything at all.

"Well. You know kids." Lynn tries to smile, glances at Sam before looking in Dean's vicinity. "He did mention something. The closet. He was scared of the closet in his bedroom." She leans forward, puts the cup on the coffee table in front of her. Her hands open and close before she rests them on her thighs. "But I checked it, before bed. Every night. I think Jacob even woke up Peter to have him look."

"Did you ever notice anyone showing interest in him? Or following him around?" She shakes her head, face tight, but Dean only says, "We'd like to take a look at his room. If you don't mind." Nothing about it is a question, and she stands, leads them up the stairs to her son's room, before turning away. "We'll only be a minute."

When she's gone, Sam says, "What's wrong with you? You were being an ass."

Dean ignores him, pulls out the EMF reader and his cell phone. The boy's room is littered with toys and clothes, and Sam knows Lynn and Peter haven't touched this room. Have left it, and dust is starting to coat everything scattered around. "Wait," he says, and reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a tape recorder. "This'll play better than the cell phone."

Dean moves around the room, running over lights and switches, before heading to the closet, and Sam's left to check the window-sills for any traces of sulphur, but he knows that after three months it's a long shot, and isn't surprised to come up empty. "Well, I can't find anything. There's not even a journal. Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam." A minute later, he's in the room again, shaking cobwebs out of his face. "Definitely EMF in there. Some kind of presence, even considering the age of the house and its wiring," he waves the hand holding the machine behind him. "Ran the tape recorder, too; we can play that back at the motel." He slides them back into his jacket, rolls his shoulders. "You ready?"

"Huh," Sam looks down at the baseball card he's holding. He doesn't know the player, never even liked baseball, but he sees the worn edges on it, the smudges of oil. "Yeah, let's go."

_888_


	3. Chapter 3a

The parking lot of the _Scottish Inns _is deserted when they pull in; the evening sun skitters over cracked pavement and faded oil stains, but doesn't reach under the overhang to the doors, and Sam stares for a moment at the dully glinting room numbers before sliding out of the Impala. He hears Dean's boots scrape over the broken ground, feels the raised grooves of crevices under his own soles as he makes his way to the sidewalk, waits for his brother to pull out the roomkey. When it slides into the knob, Sam can see a _7 _scratched out in faded permanent marker; then, the door swings open, and he's greeted with a blast of frigid, stale air as he enters the little room.

Sam heads to the table holding his laptop; the metal is cool against his fingers when he presses the power button, hears the tinny sound of the computer's greeting. Underneath that, though, he can hear the whirring and clicking as Dean rewinds the tape recorder. Sam's always hated the noise, hated watching the numbers flipping backward and hearing the distorted sound of someone's voice. He had heard it in study groups at Stanford, learned to grit his teeth and bear it. It wasn't important, not really, and he had lived with it, even when Jess began using one, and he heard it every other night (_I need it, Sam; Malin's hard to take notes for during lecture. _He had sworn never to take the man's class).

Now it tightens the knots through his shoulders until he can feel the heat of cramped muscles spread, sending it radiating, and lodging in his head, tripping away behind his eyes. But he thinks maybe that's not the worst of it, this time. He doesn't want to hear if anything is on that tape, doesn't want to know _who _or _what_, because now there's a mother who's still looking for her kid and a brother without a sibling. He's regretted finding this case since the car ride to North Carolina, since the queasy, oily feeling took up residence in his stomach. Yeah, the job was a bad idea, he knew that, even convincing Dean to take it. _Sam's _idea, and he'll be damned before he calls it off. But.

He still keeps his back turned to Dean as the tape is played, doesn't shift his focus from the laptop in front of him. He hadn't found any patterns when he searched in Kentucky, but he thinks there's Warrenton and Henderson, now, that might hold something. Close enough to Afton, fifteen or twenty minutes; not too far to be unusable, seeing as how he can't even pull up census records for the town.

"Hey," Dean's voice is gravel and dust, and Sam cranes his neck, looks over his shoulder. He sees his brother stare at the blocky, silver machine cradled in his hand before sliding his eyes to Sam's. "There's definite EVP on it." He tosses the the tape recorder across the narrow space, and Sam catches it, slides his fingers over plastic buttons as Dean says, "Listen."

It's not much, at first. Static, and the noise of his brother moving around, but Sam stares at the flicking white numbers, and at _2.15 _there's a voice. Faint and small, Sam thinks _unsure_, but there. He can hear it repeat something, some brief word two or three times, then he hears empty air for the last five minutes. "'Help,' maybe. Or 'hello.'" The play button clicks off, and Sam slips the tape recorder onto the table beside his laptop, making the edges of both machines even. "Something, though. You're right."

"Yeah," Dean moves forward, hooks the empty chair with his leg. Settles. "But _who _does it sound like?" Sam just glares at him. Dean huffs, "Could be a young boy. Jacob." He leans forward then, turns his head parallel with Sam's, "Whaddya got? Anything new?"

"Nothing much. Warrenton's higher than the national average for real estate," Sam coughs, uses the mouse pad to skim through the site. "Unemployment is high for the area. That's it, though." He turns the computer to face Dean, moves back and presses back into the chair, straightens his legs. "There's nothing. This place averages a murder a year, no missing persons cases, no strange attacks. The Zachs are the anomaly." He watches Dean, sees the lines in his forehead and around his eyes deepen. "I couldn't find any odd history for the house, either. It's like the kid was there and then the next minute--just vanished."

Dean shifts away from the screen, and the light washes over him, pale and sickly. "Isn't that what we look for? If it was cut-and-dry we wouldn't be here, dude."

"Well, Dean, usually we have more to go on than this, don't we? Now, we don't have a clue, beside some readings and what _might_ be the voice of what _might _be our missing kid. I don't know, I just think there should be more of _something_."

"Alright. Tomorrow we'll pay the family another visit. Look around the property." Dean knocks his hand against Sam's resting on the table. "We'll get it, Sammy; we always do." The hand moves up, trails his arm until it lands against the side of his neck. "Come on, let's see if we can find a place to eat. I'm hungry."

888

Sam feels Dean's chest rise and fall; steady, even breaths that travel through his back where Dean's pressed, skin to skin, to him. The movement jars him, messes with his own rhythm as his body tries to copy Dean's. It feels like he can't get enough air, but every time he tries to pull away Dean's arm tightens across his hips, and Sam stills, doesn't feel like waking his brother up.

He sometimes thinks that it'd be easier--for Dean, for him--if he were in his brother's place, curled over and around Dean. He's taller, bigger, and the one usually awake. They tried it, once, with Dean muttering, darkly, _I'm not a girl, dude _(Sam veers away from ever contemplating the mental picture Dean must have of him. He always comes away with a faint impression of corsets and parasols). But he'd talked Dean into it, had thought he could get up, _move_, if he wasn't able to sleep. Instead, he'd lain there, back growing cold, uncomfortable, feeling _exposed. _Judging by Dean's shallow, rushed breaths he hadn't liked it, either. The next night, Dean had burrowed into him, hands loose and wandering, and said, "Tough." They'd never tried it again.

But now his joints are stiff and achy, drawing his attention even as he tries to stay still. _Pink elephants, _he thinks, and shifts onto his back, feeling Dean's arm flat on his stomach. Dean grunts, and Sam thinks he can make out a muffled, "Sleep," but he can't. In between bursts of _awake, _he dozes, dreams in snatches, and his dreams are rarely ordered or pleasant, but these jerk him out, leave ashes in his mouth and shooting pain in his chest.

He doesn't know why, really. From what he can remember they aren't that bad. Just Dean, yelling, _screaming, _something at him. He can never hear it, but sees Dean's face. Always scared, but he can't move closer, can't make out anything, except Dean holding a large, bulky object. Everything else is garbled, like they're under water, like there's a humming shivering through his body, sounding close to what their mother's voice had sounded like, back in Lawrence, when he saw her for his first and last time. But it doesn't bring comfort; its low and monotonous tone blocks out Dean's words, creates static that he can't navigate past. After that it's darkness, a _wrongness_ that he can't explain before it wakes him up.

He turns again, rolling onto his side, facing Dean. His brother's face is tense, and Sam knows it's because of him. That doesn't stop him, though, from sliding down until the few inches of height is evened out between them, and he can feel puffs of air against his face.

"Dude, I can feel you staring at me," his brother's voice is jumbled, thick. _"What_?"

"I can't sleep." He pushes his head forward, until Dean's face threatens to become a blurry, indistinct shape. His brother still hasn't opened his eyes. _"Dean," _and the whine clogging his voice makes him smile, makes him want Dean to see it, too.

"Well? What d'ya want me to do about it?" He can hear the laughter under the words, and it feels good. Good enough to forget about the tightness in his chest, the sandpaper thickness in his eyes. And he pushes a leg in between Dean's, lets his thigh press up; he feels his brother tense and pull away, slightly, before settling in and pushing Sam onto his back. "It's like," Dean's body leans over him, and it's Sam's turn to let his legs fall open. He hears Dean snort. "It's 4 o'clock. In the morning."

Sam makes a sound of agreement, and his brother nips a kiss into flesh where thigh meets hip, and he rises up, but Dean only laughs, runs a fingernail along his cock before travelling up, planting wet kisses along Sam's belly, and Sam feels callused fingers follow the trail, cool against his skin. When Dean reaches his throat, licking his way up, Sam can finally grab him, haul him up, and he feels Dean's smirk against his mouth before Sam bites at his bottom lip, feels his brother's mouth open over his own. Dean tastes like sleep, new and old and slightly stale, yet Sam chases it, wants it. He thinks that it's familiarity, comforting and safe, and he doesn't want to let it go. But he feels Dean meet him and push back, feels the need to breathe, and sucks in a shaky breath _(loud, so loud)_, a moment of space before he pulls Dean back to him.

It's a blur of shape and shadow, the room too dark to see much of anything, but he isn't surprised to feel fingers press inside, but he's still slick from last time, then Dean is _there_, and Sam feels muscles tighten in his legs, where he's wrapped them around Dean, can feel his brother's shoulders bunch and move, and it's enough. He feels stretched thin and full, and when Dean changes angles, it's all Sam can do to hold on, pleasure shooting through him, and thrust up, brief moments of skin against his aching cock.

He can hear a low, wordless murmur; knows it has to be him, since he feels his brother's lips mouthing his jaw, tracing the line to right below his ear, hot breath ghosting over him. Dean whispers, "Sam," and finally, _finally, _grips him, and then he's coming, with Dean's lips pressed messy and open to his skin, and Sam's fingers braced in the hollows between Dean's shoulders.

He hears Dean ragged pants in his ear, and a quiet, "So, was it as good for you as it was for me?" He huffs a laughs, but can't open his eyes, feels the weight of his eyelids and doesn't fight, doesn't stir even as he feels cloth against his stomach, chest, and wonders if Dean's using _his _clothes to clean them up with. But sleep is dragging him down, and he's only aware of Dean's soft, "'Night, Sammy," before sinking completely under.

888


End file.
